


The Colors Are All Gone

by Maybe_or_Maybe_not



Category: Septiplier - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Brief mention of self-harm, Depression, Grief, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Suicide, semi-graphic description of drowning, talk of numbness and other symptoms of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybe_or_Maybe_not/pseuds/Maybe_or_Maybe_not
Summary: So if pain was the easiest feeling to get back, he would take it in any form.Mark has just lost his husband to a horrible accident and now all he wants to do is feel something again. He'll go to any lengths to achieve this, even if it costs him his life.





	The Colors Are All Gone

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warning:** Please remember to read the tags
> 
> Boy oh boy do I write depressing stuff, maybe the next thing I write will actually be more cheerful, here's hoping I guess. Anyway, hope this isn't too terribly written, I just felt like I haven't written something on here in quite a while so Imma just go with this.
> 
> Also, Jack's name is never mentioned in this fic, but any "he" that is italicized is implied to mean him. Also also, this fic is partially (I suppose) inspired by Halsey - Colors

It was the dead of winter, it was no real surprise that the sky was grey that day, especially while engulfed in clouds. But still, it was oh so _empty_ in a way, devoid of its usual blueness, all that was left a storming void.

And the grass, that was so vividly green in the summer, had grown a sickly pale brown in the wake of fall, hardly any color left at all now having suffered layers of snow, making it all feel so very much like the very earth was slowly dying, withering away as it had done every year just to blossom again in the spring.

But Mark couldn’t think about that. About how the sky would clear and be blue again, how the grass would grow back and become green again, how everything that looked so hopeless would once have a fresh start and bring forth a new meaning again. 

Because, at that moment, “again” felt like “never”.  
Because things just wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ get better again this time.  
Because, no matter what happened, things would _never_ be the way they once were.

And the lack of colors around him only echoed this sentiment.

Well, all except for the river.

The water, 200 or so feet below where he stood, was the only thing still in sheer color. Unmarred by ice or pollution, uninfected by winter’s chill touch, it was the most brilliantly intense blue.

_Just like his eyes used to be._

And that was all the deciding factor he needed left, that no better judgement call or warning bells ringing in his mind—that he’d grown to ignore long ago anyhow—could sway.

He was finally entirely numb, deaf, and blind to the world, all save for this dull aching nothingness in his chest, the faintest stinging redness in his eyes, and that stark blue down below that reminded him far too much of _happiness_ and _joy_ and _life,_ things he no longer knew the definitions of ever since _he_ left, up in so much smoke and flames and the scattered remains of what barely even resembled a plane once it was ripped violently from the air.

He couldn’t get the images out of his mind—the pictures in the paper, the footage on the news, the coffee mug and toothbrush and side of the bed that now went unused, the stone placed unwaveringly in the ground engraved with _his name_ —anywhere, everywhere he turned now just served as a reminder of what he lost, of _who_ was gone, of how it wasn’t just a plane that crashed six months ago but also all his plans, all his hopes, all his love and enthusiasm for living.

And he had tried, _God he had tried,_ to keep going, keep _existing_ without _him_. But nothing felt quite _real_ anymore, like he was stuck in a gradually spiraling out-of-control nightmare. A permanent state of defeat and relentless grief that hung over him day to day without reprieve. 

Maybe in another life he could have been stronger, held on a little longer, been able to move on given time—but time felt as if at a standstill and moving on was like this mountainous impossibility he wasn’t inclined to climb.

Life was, in no short terms, now horribly stunted. Old and new relationships with those around him tanked, his videos ceased to be made after he found he just _couldn’t,_ knowing the other channel that would never be active again. He didn’t have the heart to face his fans, let alone his friends and family that were all worried for his well being. They all took it hard, but, to Mark, none quite hard _enough._

They all had picked themselves up again, they didn’t have to go home to a empty house. The world still turned in the same way it always did for everyone else, but he didn’t understand how that was possible.

_He_ had been this overpowering _brightness_ that was faultless in chasing away the dark. This precious light in Mark’s life, that no matter how dim it got, always still shone with an unremitting force that _never went out._

But… it did go out. In the end, no matter how fierce a fire _he_ was or held, it went out all the same. What once Mark thought to be indestructible met an unfortunate end that reminded him, in the form of the harshest dose of reality, that _he_ had only ever been _human._

And humans were fragile. Humans died.

This was common knowledge, but only now did it truly _sink in_ in a way he couldn't come back from.

Never till then did Mark know that one could, in fact, overdose on reality and that it could be just as fatal as a drug.

After all, that was why he was there on that bridge, wasn’t it? Because reality had gotten to be far too much, had taken _all too much_ from him.

Now perched on the ledge, not remembering exactly when he had climbed up, he peered, transfixed, once more deeply into the blue. High up as he was, it felt all too far away.

Briefly he imagined his heart must be hammering in his chest, his breathing escalating to a rapid uneven pace...but despite all his focus, he still couldn’t _feel_ it as he should. No surprise there, he couldn’t feel much these days.

He longed to feel something now. _Anything._ He had gone as far as to try self-harm, but quickly blades had lost their sting in the same manner food had lost its taste and sleep had lost its restfulness. He thought of other ways to... go, but they were all too quick...feelingless. _This_ , however, he knew he'd feel. And really, that was all that mattered now. That's all that could matter at all.

He left a note, at least. Of course he did, it was his last rational-irrational thought. He had planned this for weeks now, not fully knowing whether or not he'd go through with it. He figured he'd decide when he got there. What he didn't expect was the water to be so blue. Perhaps if it wasn't he would have had second thoughts, would've maybe gone home. But it was, and now he had none, and in the blink of an eye perching turned to standing and peering turned to leaning.

There had been such _pain_ in the first three months. He drank so much just to _forget_ , so much he almost died from that alone had his friends not taken him to the hospital. He thought that had been the worst that grief could do. But it was the _absence_ of pain, of any feeling whatsoever, in the last three months that made him do anything just to _remember_.

Remember what it was like to _laugh_. Remember what it was like to _cry_ , both happy and sad tears. Remember what it was like to _smile_ , and mean it. Remember what it was like to _love_ , something his heart didn't seem capable of doing anymore.

Once the pain left, he no longer had a reason to _be_ anymore. At least with the pain there was a purpose in existing. Pain was _normal_ , pain he could _accept._

So if pain was the easiest feeling to get back, he would take it in any form.

And, so, it was as simple and as complex as that. Hardly any effort was made, it wasn't even so much a jump as it was a step and he was falling. In just seconds he was gone beneath the surface, enraptured and encaptured in the blue, crisp waves of the slowly rushing river.

Immediately his lungs began to burn, as they quickly ran out of air and rapidly filled up with water, but not once did he struggle, not once did he try to push himself back up to shore. In the back of his mind he knew he should be panicking, his survival instincts should be kicking in. But, all he could think was of finally _feeling_ something, how, ironically, dying made him feel more _alive_ than living had lately.

No, he wasn't _happy,_ so to say, but he could _feel,_ and that was enough. Soon enough there was no grey to recall, no sickly pale brown, no deadly empty colors or storming blank voids. All that was left was blue, in and out and all around, it was all he could see.

And maybe, if he was lucky... he'd soon get to see the real thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Just so everyone knows, I'm not in any way trying to romanticize suicide here, suicide is a saddening epidemic and happens for a wide range of differing reasons. Here I just hope I was able to capture at least one type of possible mindset, out of the thousands of kinds possible, one can have to make them contemplate taking their life and going through with it.


End file.
